Honey, here comes a lullaby
by herondale-holmes
Summary: Basically an angsty, Johnlock fanfiction based partially on the film 'Third Star'. John is diagnosed with cancer and, as a dying wish, requests that he and Sherlock go to Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland for their 'final adventure' together.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**  
**This chapter is more or less an introduction to John's cancer and basically the background leading up to the next chapters.**  
**My description of the cancer may not be correct so don't take my word for it, though I did do some research before barrelling on and writing it. ^^'**  
**Any comments would be appreciated, as always.**  
**Cheers.**

edit: I changed the ending ever so slightly.  
It wasn't flowing properly.

* * *

Cancer - The one word that had been the chorus to both John and Sherlock's life for the past year or so. How one small and seemingly insignificant thing could spread to be the killer that it was now was... mind-blowing.

It had all started roughly two years ago. It had been mild and inconspicuous, at first; a mole that had appeared on John's left outer thigh. He'd paid it little attention back then. In fact, he'd mistaken it to be a freckle and had dismissed it completely. But when he first noticed its change in shape and the itchiness and irritation, the doctor in him knew he'd have to get it checked out. Without mentioning a word to Sherlock, of course; despite the man's general lack of interest in most things that weren't himself and his experiments, John knew that Sherlock would have pestered him about it for days on end and, unlike most people, Sherlock didn't tire easily when it came to annoying people.

The appointment with the doctor – Dr. Williams his name had been – had gone relatively smoothly. Well, at least it had from where John had sat, listening to everything Williams said with rose-tinted glasses. They'd taken a few tests as well as blood and skin samples from around the mole, with the doctor saying that he would get in touch with John in a few days with the results and that had been that. However, when he'd returned to 221B to the sound of Sherlock screeching away painfully on his violin in the front room, he'd started to feel a little nervous and twitchy, barely being able to stand Sherlock's violin 'playing' before he'd huffed off to his room.

Sherlock had likely noticed that something was nibbling away at John for the few days that followed the doctor's appointment, asking the shorter man if everything was alright pretty much every time the two were in the same room together... which was a lot when you lived in a relatively cosy flat like they did. Of course, John had batted away all of the man's fussing with ease. If only he could have ignored his own nerves with as much simplicity.

And then there had been the phone call. Fortunately, Sherlock had disappeared off somewhere at the time – they'd recently solved a case and Sherlock had likely run off to gloat to Lestrade and show off about everything he knew in good old Holmes fashion – and so when Dr. Williams had requested that John book an immediate appointment for that day to discuss the test results, the man had gotten even more worried. He'd hurried down to the doctor's surgery and had to endure around about half an hour of the doctor telling him he had skin cancer – 'non-melanoma' as the doctor had called it.  
"But fortunately we've caught it at an early stage," the doctor had told him, "and, if we start with immediate treatment and removal of the mole, it should hopefully prevent it from spreading."

It had sounded so hopeful back then. After John had been referred to a specialist – a Dr. Murkowski – the treatment had been quick, the mole having been removed within the three weeks after the doctor's appointment. What was better was that John had somehow managed to hide all of this from Sherlock's view. How, exactly, he wasn't sure. Sherlock had been seemingly distracted by other things throughout the period that John had been visiting the doctor and, since the man never queried where John disappeared to – if he even noticed his disappearances – John never brought it up.

Things had been fine for a few months after that. The small scar on John's thigh from the removal of the mole had pretty much disappeared and he'd begun to push all of that behind him; things had gone back to complete normality. That was until he started to get pains in the same area as where the mole had once been. As before, they'd been bearable pains, easy to dismiss. But as he and Sherlock continued to venture out on cases, John found running after the man as they scoured the streets of London becoming increasingly difficult, not to mention painful. On many occasions, John had backed out of helping Sherlock chase down a drugs smuggler or the culprit behind a murder charge purely because he couldn't.

It had been horrid, and not just because of the pain; not being able to participate in cases as fully as he wanted to and watching Sherlock dance about 221B as he droned on about his lack of cases, or John's lack of support, had caused him more pain. What was worse, he'd started using his walking stick again. At the sight of that, it was Sherlock's turn to get concerned, and when he got concerned, he did in vibrant colours, banners and interpretive dances – meaning he wouldn't shut up about it till John was practically carried into the doctor's surgery over Sherlock's shoulder. Literally.

And it all went downhill from there.

The next few weeks had been filled with tests, x-rays, tests and more tests, over which time John had come to notice the lump that had begun to form just above the scar left behind after the removal of his mole. Sherlock had started to step further and further away from his cases and experiments to go with John to his doctor's appointment and their normalcy was abruptly ended after what must have been their sixth appointment with the doctor. "I'm afraid it's _Ewing's Sarcoma_," Dr. Grantham – a specialist, apparently – had explained, "a cancer commonly found near or in the bone. It is likely that the removal of the cancerous mole on your thigh was not entirely successful and the cancer has spread to your bone..."

Upon the hearing of the cancerous mole, Sherlock had pretty much exploded on both John and the doctor, demanding that either one of them explained themselves before he called the husband of the doctor's secretary to tell him that she was sleeping with her boss.

John had heard of the cancer before, knowing it to be one of the most common types of bone cancer, but that hadn't offered him much in the way of reassurance. After having explained to a livid Sherlock about John's earlier mild case of skin cancer, Grantham had then gone on to explain treatment and so on and so forth. Though, throughout most of the discussion, John hadn't been listening. He could hardly believe that this was happening to him. _He had cancer_. _Cancer._ He was almost taunting himself by repeating it to himself.

John had fleeted in and out of the conversation as the doctor explained that they would need to do further x-rays to see the rate of the tumour's growth and that they would then discuss treatment from there. Sherlock had interjected occasionally with tight-lipped remarks. In fact, his parting words with the doctor were that he was 'an utterly useless imbecile that had failed in his role as a doctor'. That was the 'clean' version.

The x-rays had shown that the cancer had, indeed, spread to two other locations; his left hip and knee. The tumour on his thigh had grown in size and, despite the other tumours being smaller, they were all massing directly on his bones, which was the reason behind his inability to walk anywhere without experiencing pain. The doctor had decided to use a dose of both chemotherapy, which would serve to shrink the tumours, and palliative radiotherapy, which would ease the pain that the tumours were causing though it would not rid him of them. The only thing that could be done at that point was to shrink the tumours and then remove them before they could spread further... but the doctor's prognosis was generally a bleak one. Apparently there was a 80 per cent chance that the tumours would come back after removal, something that didn't inspire a huge amount of hope but what else did John have to grasp hold of other than the fact he might be part of that lucky 20 per cent? It wasn't just John in this, however; Sherlock was holding this hope just as tightly. Everyone was.

And so treatment had begun. John now had to take more pills than he could count each day and was going once per week for doctor's appointments and trips to the radiotherapist. Nothing had been quite right at 221B after that. Of course, Mrs Hudson had flapped like a fish out of water when she heard the news, breaking down into tears and hugging John till he was fairly certain she had shrunk his jumper with her tears. She was the first person to breech the normality that John was used to. The next one was Harriet who, upon hearing the news, had driven straight down to London to see him, appearing on 221B's doorstep unannounced. She had made herself quite at home there for a few days, doing some shopping for them and generally helping John out for a bit, before Sherlock had eventually managed to usher her out after numerous inquiries of her drinking habits.

At first, it was apparent that Sherlock had opted to ignore John's cancer. John had been perfectly fine with that. Sherlock had continued to take cases, conduct experiments and play his violin at four in the morning.

However, as time had spiralled on and a month had passed and John could assist him less and less, the strain started to show on them both. As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, working alone felt wrong. John had always been his counterpart, the person he could bounce his thoughts at, his cipher.

But at the news that the radiotherapy and chemotherapy weren't having any affect and the cancer was beginning to spread to other parts of John's body, Sherlock's act had begun to crumble noticeably. John had begun to struggle a great deal on getting up the stairs in their flat and, on numerous occasions, Sherlock had found himself almost practically carrying the man up them much to John's evident dismay considering the short man tended to hit Sherlock repeatedly with his walking stick till the man put him down.

As a side-effect of the radiation therapy, John's hair had begun to thin and fall out and he'd started to obtain a large amount of burns and sores on his left thigh, making any movement incredibly uncomfortable and painful for him. As if the pain in his bones weren't enough.

Over time, Sherlock dedicated most of his time experimenting on ingenuous – well, he called them ingenuous anyway – ways to help John get around easier. He kept saying how they needed to invest in equipment to enable him to move around better when 'the going gets tough'. This had ranged from the suggestion of a stair lift – to which John had instantly shot down – to Sherlock placing a baby monitor in John's room to 'keep an eye on him'. "It's an ingenuous idea, John," he'd said – _that bloody word_ – but resigning himself to stair lifts... John wasn't quite that far enough along yet for that.

Quite frankly, Sherlock's obsession with trying to make things easier for John had only served to give him the goose bumps – the man had become even more of a hawk than he normally was; a change he had tried to hide at the beginning but gave up on as time went on. Though, alongside the heebie-jeebies, Sherlock never failed to amuse him. It was obvious in the way that he spoke, asking how John was feeling, that he wasn't used to such interaction, but John would be forever in his debt for trying. Sherlock hadn't found it funny – or at least he pretended not to, though John was certain he'd seen the man's lips twitch in an attempt to keep a straight face whenever John commended his 'new and improved' caring attitude.

The one steady thing in his life had been Sherlock. Where other people came and went, Sherlock remained. When people let him down or 'had other plans', Sherlock was always there to pick up the pieces and help him through it. Even before the cancer had been declared officially, the infuriating smart-arse of a consulting detective was always there when he needed him.

If one person could keep his spirits high in a time like this it was Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:  
Well I finally got around to writing the next part.  
Sorry for any spelling mistakes and so on.  
Enjoy..._ sort of_.**

* * *

John awoke to the usual and familiar sounds of the screeching of Sherlock's violin. It pretty much cut straight through him, clearing away any grogginess he felt like a knife slicing through fog. There was also a distinct smell of burning on the air that told John that one of the man's experiments had likely failed. _Hence the screeching_. Clearly it wasn't in Sherlock's nature to adhere to the phrase 'suffer in silence'.

After the acknowledgement of his cancer - it had been roughly seven months since his incident with the cancerous mole - Sherlock had taken it upon himself for the two men to swap rooms, making it easier for John to get to and from the lounge and kitchen area of the flat. John had protested at first, of course. The changes that seemed to be constantly taking place because of his handicap were starting to grate on him, but Sherlock's days of constant nagging and pestering weakened the man's resolve. Though it also meant John had to face the consequences for being so close to the lounge; getting the full brunt of Sherlock's playing the violin or throwing knives at the wall at four in the morning was not something that best pleased the man but he'd grown used to it.

Heaving a loud groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose, John then went about shifting himself carefully up into a sitting position, his breath coming out as a hiss through his teeth as the throbbing sensation he'd grown accustomed to in his left leg returned with a vengeance. As the bed springs creaked under his weight, John paused, mid-way through tearing the duvet off his legs, when he realised the violin playing had ceased, the lounge now having fallen entirely silent.

Shrugging to himself, John had then proceeded to carefully shift his legs, one after the other, over the side of the bed and had been in the midst of grasping his walking stick and hauling himself to his feet when the door burst open and John nearly flew back onto the bed in surprise. "_Jesus Christ_," he declared, a hand clasping his chest.  
"Not quite, but close enough," came the low voice of Sherlock from where he stood in the door way.  
"You very nearly gave me a bloody heart attack, Sherlock," the man continued as he straightened himself up, shooting the lithe figure in his bedroom door way a glare. Sherlock was in his usual daytime attire of shirt, pressed trousers and red dressing gown, though John was fairly certain there were hints of crescent-shaped bags beneath the man's silver-blue eyes. Had he not been sleeping?  
"I'm _bored_, John," he declared, stepping further into the room as he added haughtily, "and you've been sleeping far too long."  
Moving to grasp his walking stick again, John then found himself being helped to his feet by slender, pale hands hooking under his arms. "What time is it?" John asked as soon as he was on his feet, earnestly batting away Sherlock's attempts to keep him steady.  
"Mid-day," the man curtly replied, stepping back as John straightened up only to be forced into his own dressing gown.  
"Sherlock, I can dress myself, y'know."  
Sherlock primly stepped away, hands clasped in his lap. "Yes, well..." The man seemed to be searching for words, his eyes blinking rapidly in concentration as if he was Morse-coding himself what to say, before he continued on a different train of thought, "Anyway, Mrs. Hudson left you some tea. Camomile apparently," before turning and exiting the room in a flurry of dressing gown and embarrassment, leaving John to shake his head to himself and release a dry laugh.

After shuffling down the corridor towards the lounge, John had been about to instinctively attempt to flatten down his bed head, pausing for a moment in the corridor, only to remember the blatant and painfully obvious; he had no hair for it to be ruffled. He'd often run his hands through his hair after his first bout of chemotherapy and felt instantly sickened at the sight of the ashy-blond clumps in his hands afterwards. After being told it was going to fall out anyways, John had eventually elected to have it all shaved off to save himself the pain of watching himself slowly go bald. It had taken some getting used to.

Carefully placed himself into his chair, John's face contorted with pain for a moment, before he grasped the paper from where it was set on the table next to him only to find a hole had been burnt straight through its centre. Frowning, John glanced up at Sherlock who had suddenly appeared with two cups in his hands. "Oh, that," he began, setting John's cup down on the table beside him before taking up residence in his chair across from the man, "there was another article about my hat... and I wanted to test the rate of which acid can burn through paper-"  
"You just set it on fire, didn't you," John cut in, folding the paper back up.  
There was a beat of silence where Sherlock's fingers tapped against the arms of his chair, before he threw his hands up in the air. "Alright, fine, yes, I wanted to sabotage the article," he grumbled sulkily, arms folding over his chest, "trust the tabloids to focus on the fickle and superficial."  
"I think it's a charming hat," John countered, clearing his throat as he picked up his cup with a shaking hand, "it suits you."

Looking back at Sherlock to shoot him a smile, John noticed that the man was looking at his quaking hand with a scrutinising gaze. There was something else in those eyes too but John felt too much as though he was intruding on something private to delve any deeper than the surface. With his smile quickly falling, John cleared his throat and opted to clasp the cup with both hands rather than one before speaking. "Any new cases, then?" John asked, "Lestrade's been awfully quiet... and we've not had any clients lately either."  
Rising abruptly to his feet, Sherlock moved to pace at the end of the room. "Perhaps the world has righted itself," Sherlock answered blandly, not looking John in the eye, as he paused to look out of the window.  
Taking a sip from his cup, John's brow creased when the man didn't elaborate. "Have we had any new cases, Sherlock?" John asked again, continuing to watch the man who was still staring out of the window with a sudden new, keen interest.  
"Nope, not a single one," the man replied, rolling his shoulders in a shrug, "perhaps your appalling taste in jumpers scared them off-"  
"You've not accepted any new cases, have you," John began, the words coming out as more of a statement than the question he'd meant to ask. Silence. Not a good sign. "Because of me?"  
Sherlock's gaze fell from the window for a moment and his face spasmed as if he were in pain. "John, I-"  
"I cannot believe it," John uttered, laughing coldly in disbelief as he set his cup down as aggressively as he could without spilling it. "I can't believe it- You've _stopped taking cases_ for_ my sake_?"  
Turning towards him, Sherlock gestured with his hands for John to calm down. "John, there is no need to get upset-"  
"Why? Tell me, why should I not be upset?" John's voice was beginning to rise in volume, shifting forwards in his seat. "Why should I not be upset that my best friend is giving up the one thing that brings him happiness for the sake of my health?" Sherlock's expression was guarded, as if he was trying not to tempt a wild animal.  
"John-"  
"Shut up for a minute, would you?!" he yelled, his face contorted with pain and anger. "I don't want to drag you down with me, alright? If you want to know what I'm most afraid of, it's that. You have a life too, Sherlock, and for God's sake, live it, will you? I can't bare to see you waste it on me-" John hadn't realised he'd been half way onto his feet until he felt a horrible shot of pain travel through his hips and down his legs, causing him to cry out and fall forwards, cutting off his words.

But John never hit the ground. Sherlock's arms were around him before he could even bend his knees. John felt frail in Sherlock's arms, the chemotherapy having taken a lot out of him. With his hands automatically clutching at Sherlock's dressing gown, John allowed himself to fall into Sherlock and eventually found himself in the man's lap. "John?" Sherlock began tentatively, arching his neck in an attempt to get a better look at the man who had pressed his face into the man's shoulder, "John, are you alright? Have you taken your medication-?"  
"Sherlock, please," John uttered, lifting his head slightly, his voice oddly quiet and shaking with unease, "please, just... I don't need bloody medication. What... what I-I need is normality... I need..." John's words trailed off as his forehead thudded against Sherlock's shoulder and he inhaled a quivering sigh before releasing it just as shakily. "I need to pretend that everything is okay, for the sake of my sanity."

Several beats of silence passed with Sherlock staring, outwardly, impassively at the shaking man in his arms. Inside, he was a mess. His mind palace was filled with upturned chairs and tables and broken doors. He was at a complete loss for words, unable to comfort his friend at all. His expression remained stoic as John turned his head up to him, the red rims around his grey-blue eyes telling Sherlock all he needed to know of the man's current mental state... and it physically hurt to see. "Take a new case, for my sake. Please," John said, his tone sounding a little more even, though still as broken as before, "Please, Sherlock. I can look after myself."  
"But John, I-"  
"No 'but's. You're taking a new goddamn case and that's final. I don't care if I have to choose one for you myself, or hell, if I even have to _make _you one. You're taking one and that is that," he sniffed, releasing Sherlock's dressing gown and making to grab his walking stick to hoist himself up only to find that Sherlock was holding his sides gently, keeping him steady as he rose back to his feet.

As soon as John was up on his feet however, he earnestly shoved Sherlock's hands away from him as if they were hurting him and grabbed his walking stick, leaning heavily on it. He suddenly felt incredibly tired and he closed his eyes for a moment, the pain in his hip increasing tenfold for a moment before settling to a dull thud. "Tomorrow you'll take a new case and you're going to act like nothing is wrong," John ordered, eyes opening to look over at Sherlock, "Everything is fine, okay?"  
It took Sherlock a few moments to muster up a reply, clearing his throat a little before hand. "If that is what you want, John," he answered, watching as the man nodded his head and shuffled back over to his chair, setting himself down.  
"It is," the man declared with a hint of finality.

Sensing that the conversation was over, John having then busied himself with forlornly gazing into his cup of tea and lapsing into silence, Sherlock picked himself up from where he was still crouched on the floor and moved towards where his violin sat on it's stand. Positioning it carefully under his chin, Sherlock glanced briefly over at John before turning towards the window, beginning to gently drag the bow across the strings.


End file.
